


The life I buried in hot flames

by siegeofangels



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Self-Discovery, seductive rolling-up of cuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 02:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13560630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siegeofangels/pseuds/siegeofangels
Summary: working title: "Victorian gentlemen kissing"





	The life I buried in hot flames

For all of the snow outside, Pendrick’s workshop is warm. Almost too warm; they have both removed their coats, and from there it only seems sensible to roll up their shirt cuffs to better manipulate the delicate workings of the device. 

They're standing quite close to both have a look at the miniature inner workings of the radio, shoulders pressing against one another. William can feel the warmth of Pendrick’s skin through the cotton that separates them. Strange that it would be so vivid; the room is warm already. 

“And if you look at the--” Pendrick says. He's using a thin probe to point at a connection, but he's wrong, all wrong. 

William says, “But this one, it's stronger.” He puts his hand on Pendrick’s to direct the tip of the probe to point at the tiny brass coil. 

“Yes,” Pendrick says quietly. “I believe I see.” 

And--quickly, before William can quite understand what is happening--Pendrick has turned his head and darted in to press his lips to William's. 

Strange, this: to be kissed rather than kissing; to feel a hard confident mouth press against his. To hear the faint rasp of a day's beard on his own. 

He has reacted more quickly to gunshots, to ghosts. It's only when Pendrick's lips part and he begins to lick, delicately, at William's, that William returns to his senses and jerks his head back. He can't quite seem to form words, only stare at Pendrick. He must look like a gape-mouthed fish, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. 

Pendrick, for his part, only looks rueful. “Ah,” he says. “Forgive me. If the experiment concludes in the negative it need not be repeated.” 

William blinks and looks away. “Quite,” he says. 

Quite a few things are running through his mind now--the fresh memory of the kiss, the long-ago assignment at the Tennis Club. There's no way he'll be able to focus on the radio now, especially in such close quarters with Pendrick. 

“I must get back to the station,” he says. There's bound to be a grisly murder that can take the place of that gentle kiss in his mind's eye. 

Pendrick raises an eyebrow. “But I'll see you tomorrow to continue working on the radio?” 

“Yes,” William says, “of course.” They do still need to solve this mystery. 

“Good,” Pendrick says. “I’d hate to think I just ruined a burgeoning friendship.” 

William makes himself smile. “Never,” he says. Pendrick is one of the few people he would care to spend leisure time with, after all, and surely he can forget one indiscretion. 

***

He can't forget it, though; William spends the evening staring at the ceiling wondering what it is about himself, why Pendrick would think he would be receptive to those kind of advances. 

When sleep does come it is fitful and filled with half-forgotten dreams of strong hands on his limbs, of lips on his. He awakens in need, and resolutely fixes his mind on nothing at all as he takes himself in hand. 

That afternoon at Pendrick's is quiet; William keeps his coat on despite the warmth of the room, and keeps a handsbreadth of empty space between himself and Pendrick. James raises an eyebrow but refrains from commenting, for which William is profoundly grateful. 

They make no breakthrough that day, possibly because William remains distracted in one rogue corner of his brain, second-guessing his movements, his words. 

“James,” he says, and Pendrick looks up. 

William swallows but doesn't let himself look away. “What was it, yesterday--what made you think--”

“Ah,” Pendrick says. He sets down the tool he is holding with deliberate movements. “Well. The thing is, William, you . . . look. At me. And you've always shown a bit more interest in me than one would expect.” 

“I look at everyone,” William says, rather automatically. “I am a detective. And I've arrested you three times, that's hardly interest.” It sounds false even to his own ears.

Pendrick shakes his head. “Not--you *look*, William, you look at my mouth, I turn to find your gaze on my hands. I generally take those as signs.” 

“Everybody looks,” William says, disbelieving, “at mouths.” 

Pendrick only smiles a bit and shakes his head. He says gently, “Not everybody.” 

***

Another sleepless night, another morning he doesn't want to think about. William is rather short with Constable Crabtree that morning, to both of their dismay, and he escapes the station after lunch to set out for Pendrick's. 

Pendrick takes one look at him and sighs, pushing his goggles onto the top of his head. The action dishevels his hair, sandy locks out of order, and William’s traitorous brain wants him to reach up and touch.

“I never meant to cause you distress,” James says. “We have been foils but I do have a great deal of respect for you.” 

Now that William is aware of it he does find himself looking at James, cataloguing the curve of his mouth and the span of his wrist. 

“I--” William starts, and must clear his throat. “I find myself in uncertain waters,” he says. “And, as a man of science, I wonder if perhaps . . . if the experiment might be repeated.” 

Pendrick smiles, a small secret smile with no mocking or scorn, just warmth and perhaps something more. “By all means,” he says, “in the name of science.” 

The kiss, when it comes, will not be a surprise this time. Pendrick slouches on the edge of a table and waits for William to come to him; when he does, James slides his hands under William's coat, resting them lightly on his sides. Over his waistcoat. Not . . . unwelcome. 

William looks down at James and pulls away, then sits down next to him, as they were last time. Shoulders pressed against each other. His coat is still on but most of the variables are the same. And it is easier not to look James in the eye. 

He takes a deep breath and says “There, it was about like--”

“--yes,” James says. “Would you like to, or shall I--” 

“Please,” says William, looking nowhere in particular, “do.”

James leans in and touches his lips to William's, and the feeling is just as shocking as he remembered. 

A wide mouth; the faintest shadow of stubble. William lifts a hand to brush a thumb against the grain, then follows the path with the sensitive skin of his lips. He feels James smile. “All right?” he asks.

By means of response William kisses him, an active participant this time, and though he keeps his touch chaste there is a familiar thrill pulsing through him. 

James opens his mouth and licks at William's, firm and confident, and William opens his mouth and lets him in. 

A familiar, almost-drunk feeling comes upon him. The world narrows to this room, to the few cubic feet that he and James occupy. James asks questions with his tongue and William answers them: yes, yes, always yes. 

William finds his hands reaching, seeking, and presently James stands up from the table and moves to nudge one thigh between William's. Like this, William is forced to tip his head back to meet James’ lips and finds himself clamping one hand at the nape of James’ neck to hold him close. 

Somehow James’s hands are on William's waistcoat again, a firm touch that makes him gasp, thinking about the cliff they could be heading toward. He leans his forehead into James’ chest and tries to catch his breath. His hands have made their way into James’s hips without conscious thought and he recalls them, pulling his fingers away from the rough tweed and setting his hands on his lap. 

James picks them up. The feeling of his hand, large and calloused, is so alien and yet--

His chest is tightening and he can't quite catch his breath, suddenly overwhelmed. Why? Why is this the thing that undoes him? 

He feels James set his hands down, gently, and kiss him on the top of the head. He takes a step back, withdrawing his leg and the too-warm heat of his body. 

William can only squeeze his eyes shut and grasp the edge of the table until the wood bites into his palm. 

James returns. Sits, a respectable distance away. Sets down a tumbler. Scotch. 

It's smooth and warm in his mouth, but why would he expect anything else? William's eyelashes are wet. 

James clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “I've calibrated the machine to receive lower wave frequencies but we still need to test it.” His brisk, businesslike tone pulls William back to his senses. 

“Yes, of course,” he says, and stands up properly. “I'll set up the emanator.” 

***

When next they meet William is determined to focus only on their work, but the warmth of the workroom once again prompts both him and James to remove their coats, and soon they are both pressed in again, shoulder to shoulder, their bare wrists brushing as they work on the tiny receiver. 

He can make out the faint scent of James’ warmth like this, can almost taste his skin. The memory of the last time they were in this room comes to his mind--indeed, it has hardly left the forefront of his thoughts--and he closes his eyes to chase the sense-memory of James’ jaw beneath his lips. 

“Ouch!” The receiver shocks him, a spark to his bare finger, and William yanks his hand back. How could he have been so careless? There’s a small mark on the tip of his middle finger, and WIlliam gives in to the urge to put his finger in his mouth to soothe the pain. He should let himself feel it, penance for his distraction while working. 

James has withdrawn from the receiver and turned to him. “Let me see,” he says. 

“I’m fine,” William tells him, embarrassed at both the misattention that caused the burn and at having his finger in his mouth like a child. 

James raises an eyebrow eloquently, and firmly grasps William’s hand. He inspects the injured finger and then raises it to his lips, kissing the burn mark. Kissing the finger still wet from William’s mouth. 

The feeling of James’ lips on him, the warmth of his hand on William’s, makes William’s mouth go dry, makes the blood behind his eyes rise. Before he is even aware of it he has slid his hand into James’ hair and pulled him down, has fit his his mouth to James’ and is kissing him harshly, almost desperately. 

When he stops to gasp for air he finds that James has one strong hand anchored firmly at the small of William’s back. He relishes the feeling of James’ strength, the feeling of being surrounded by him. And yet. 

“I can’t,” William whispers. He hasn’t opened his eyes. 

“What can’t you do?” James murmurs, stroking his thumb along William’s spine like he’s calming an animal. On William, though, it is decidedly not a calming action. His mind and body are whirling with sensations, almost drunk with it. He wants more. 

“I can’t want this,” William says, as though saying the words will cement them in his mind. 

James says, “You do.” 

William nods. He is still close enough to James that he can feel his hair brush his face. “We are all sinners but it seems as though I am damned.” 

“I suspect,” James says, bringing his other hand up to touch William's cheek very, very lightly, sending a shiver through him, “that you would very much enjoy Hell.” 

A sudden sound snaps him out of the quiet space they’d made for themselves, and William looks up to see Constable Crabtree at the door, a nightmare of a friendly face. William’s blood runs cold and he steps back from Pendrick. 

“George,” William says harshly, intending to impress upon Crabtree the import of the situation, but George cuts him off. 

“Begging your pardon, sirs, but there’s been another murder.” 

Outside, William grabs Crabtree by his jacket. “Constable, I don’t know what you think you saw, but--”

“Did I ever tell you about my Aunt Lily and my Aunt Myrtle? In a Boston marriage in Montreal, they make the most delicious huckleberry jam,” he says. 

A ridiculous feeling of relief comes over William. “George,” he says, more kindly this time. 

“And then there’s my Aunt Augusta, or I really should say my Uncle Augustus. Living down in Windsor, quite a fine tailor.” 

“George.” 

“Of course even our Lord kissed Judas, although perhaps that’s not quite the kind of--”

“George!” William says firmly, because he is about to break down either crying or laughing hysterically, and he has no wish to find out which it would be. “Tell me about the body.” 

***

When next William returns to the Pendrick workshop, he can't seem to focus on the receiver. He flits from one table to the next, from the chalkboard to the door, until James sets down his equipment and says mildly, “You're going to electrocute us both. Sit down.” 

William cannot sit down, he can only turn around and lean heavily on the door, closing his eyes. 

He feels James walk up to him, hears the click of his shoes on the floor and feels the warmth of his body. 

James boxes him in with a forearm on either side of William's head, and he leans in and kisses him so delicately that William cannot help but seize James and crush their bodies together.

He feels James grin, and one of his hands moves down to lower the latch of the door. It's solid wood and iron and will deter all but the most determined of Toronto's constabulary. 

James’ hands are roving, and William's own are exploring the planes of James’s body, cotton and wool over muscle and belly-soft flesh. The buttons on his waistcoat are quite fine, better quality than William buys on a detective's salary. 

James breaks the kiss. He rasps, “Yes,” and applies his own deft fingers to William's buttons, making quick work of his waistcoat and shirt and--oh god--moving on to William's trousers. 

William moans at the incidental touch of James’s hand to the most sensitive flesh of his anatomy, which only makes James mold his fingers more firmly over William. 

He must make quite a picture, eyes closed in ecstasy, half his clothes open, his hand on James’ wrist as James works him with deft fingers, his mouth teasing the nerves just under William's ear. 

“Please,” William says, and he isn't entirely certain of what he wants from James, but without it he thinks he might die. 

James bites at William's jawline lightly, and then goes--dear Lord, goes down to his knees.

At first the touch of his mouth is soft, and then William's thoughts dissolve into the pure sensations of heat and tightness and slick movement. He loses himself in it, gratefully, and cries out when his release comes. 

William's knees are weak, and he would himself sink down to the ground if James’s strong hands were not holding him up. 

“James,” he murmurs, and threads his fingers into James’ hair. 

James doesn't respond, but instead pushes William's trousers open even more so he can place his mouth on the skin of William's hip and leave there a biting, sucking kiss. It hurts beautifully. 

“There,” James says, rubbing his thumb over the sore spot and then gently tucking William away. “You'll see that when next you undress. I rather like the thought of you carrying it under all of your layers.” 

William had never considered it but he finds he rather likes the thought too. He lets himself slide down to the floor and presses James down onto his back. “Should I . . . ?” he says. 

“The biting?” James asks. “Please. As for the other . . . “ He trails off and brushes a thumb over William's lips. “Next time, perhaps. I believe I'd rather have your clever hands for now.” 

There is no power that can stop William from placing his hands on James, from working open all of his buttons and carefully drawing him out. William is overwhelmed with a sense of trust, of what kind of power he holds in his hands at this moment. 

“Slowly,” James instructs, and William applies himself to learning another man’s anatomy, watching as his fingers trace over James’ flesh, as James moves under his touch. 

He is rather--beautiful like this, his long limbs stretched out beneath William, his face showing nothing but pleasure as William strokes him. It seems necessary to kiss him, to touch as much of his skin as possible with his lips, so William leans down and brushes his mouth over James’ neck. 

When he reaches the soft skin just above James’ clavicle, James makes a sound that William needs to hear again, wants to hear, would kill a man for. He applies his teeth to that spot and speeds his hand, and soon James is arching under him, beautiful broken sounds filling the air. 

William buries his face in the crumpled cotton of James’ shirt, overwhelmed. After a moment, he feels the warm weight of James’ hand in his hair. He wants to stay here, ensconced by this man’s body, safe in his embrace. He wants to--

“James,” he whispers. “Please.” William doesn’t quite know what he’s asking for, but James understands him. 

“Shh,” James says, and brushes his thumb under William’s ear. “You’ll stay, won’t you, darling?” 

Outside, it is most likely snowing again, and treacherous for a bicycle ride. There is a dead man in the city morgue wanting justice, and the mystery of the radio waves to solve.

Here, in this room, there is a man who calls William _darling_ , and the landscape of his body to learn. There are buttons, and more buttons, to undo, and secret places to touch. There is so much more of his body to kiss. 

He lifts his head and noses up to James’ jaw, and plants a kiss there, to cultivate later. 

“Yes,” William says, “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Renewal_ , by Katherine Harris Bradley and Edith Emma Cooper as "Michael Field"


End file.
